


Of Paperwork, Knots, and Warm Glowy Things, or, Roland Registers for Kindergarten

by fiadorable



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Anon Prompt, Dimples Queen, Fluff, Hood-Mills Family, Oq, Outlaw Believer, Regal Believer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:19:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3986380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiadorable/pseuds/fiadorable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Henry lets him sit on his bed with his old textbooks splayed open on his lap, the large tomes covering his legs as he runs his hands across the shiny paper, drinking in the bright pictures breaking up the dark columns of text. The older boy warned him he might not have hardbacked books like that until first grade, but Roland doesn't care. He's going to carry his own backpack and learn how to write and memorize all the names of all the bugs in this realm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lillie grey](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lillie+grey).



> This story fulfills a prompt from a nonnie (thank you, person!) that’s included at the end of the story. I’d like to thank black-throatedblue for talking me out of rage deleting this story and then giving up one of her mornings before work to sit in a chat window and literally watch me write the last 2k words. Also a huge thanks to outlawqueenluvr for the beta. All errors are my own. 
> 
> This story is dedicated to lillie-grey in honor of her first thirty days without smoking (which is why the third title of this story is “or, I Just Spent the Last Thirty Days Not Smoking, Motherfuckers!”). I’m so proud of you, Em.

Roland’s never had a big brother before, but he’s one hundred percent positive Henry would be the best one in the whole world. A belief only further cemented when the older boy agrees to give him a piggy back ride while they’re waiting for his papa to meet them at the school. Oh, yeah. Henry would be an awesome brother.

(Everything is “awesome”, now that he’s taught him how to use the word. Henry’s teaching him lots of words.)

“Faster, faster!” he says as Henry hikes him further up on his back and starts to jog across the grass in front of the school. His hands grip the teen’s shoulders (not around his neck, as he’d done the first time) and he hums for the simple pleasure of hearing and feeling his voice stutter in his chest with each footfall.

A few feet away on the sidewalk, Regina paces, phone pressed to her ear, a slight frown tugging her face down. They’re supposed to be inside the school registering him for kindergarten and Henry for eighth grade, but Papa’s not here yet. Maybe Regina is talking to him right now. Maybe she’ll poof him here, and then they can go inside and meet his teacher and pick up his school supply list. They’ve been waiting for Papa for  _forever_. Long enough for Regina to start wringing her hands and checking her phone every three seconds until it rang.

“Ok, are you ready for the tornado?” Henry asks, slowing to a stop in the middle of the lawn, panting as he once again readjusts Roland on his back.

“What’s that?”

“Hold on tight.”

Roland clamps his arms tighter around his shoulders and squeezes his knees together as Henry begins to spin in a circle, slow at first and then faster and faster until the world is a blur of greens, blues, and a bright streak of red that is Regina’s dress. His head is deliciously sloshy and heavy as they slow and come to a stumbling stop, the older boy staggering forward a few steps before kneeling hard in the grass and releasing him.

“Oh, wow,” Roland says, and tries to take a step forward. The world is still revolving, though, and he tilts sideways as his foot hits the ground, and then he’s on his back looking up at the clear August sky purpling as the sun begins to set.

“Yeah, that was my favorite when I was little,” Henry says, collapsing on the grass beside him.

“My head.” Roland lifts his hands and presses his palms to either temple, but holding his head in place doesn’t stop the tumbling between his ears.

“Did I go too fast?

“No. That was awesome,” Roland says. He flops his arms down to the grass and turns to look at Henry. “Can we do it again?”

Henry laughs and props his feet so his knees bend toward the sky. Roland drags his sneakered feet across the grass until he’s doing the same, and he’s about to ask him again if they can spin around until he throws up this time when a shadow falls over them and Regina’s face fills his view.

“Are you two finished or should I go on without you?”

“Is Papa here?” Roland asks, sitting up a little faster than his equilibrium can handle, and he falls back on one elbow as he looks around for his father’s telltale hooded leather jacket.

Regina bites her lip for a second, and then shakes her head. “Not yet, sweetheart. He’s on his way, though. He said we could go on in and he’d find us in a little while.”

What? But he  _promised_. This… this…  _sucks_.

(Henry taught him that word, too, by accident last week. He’s not supposed to say it around the grown ups, but he didn’t say anything about thinking it around them.)

All summer they’ve been telling him how exciting school is, how he’s such a big boy now, how much fun he’s going to have riding the school bus with Henry. Regina reads to him every night from books with bears who talk and wear clothes getting ready for their first day of school. Papa walks with him to the school on Thursdays to watch Henry run track. Sometimes, Henry even lets him sit on his bed with his old textbooks splayed open on his lap, the large books covering his legs as he runs his hands across the shiny paper, drinking in the bright pictures breaking up the dark columns of text. The older boy warned him he might not have hardbacked books like that until first grade, but Roland doesn’t care. He’s going to carry his own  _backpack_ and learn how to _write_ and memorize  _all_ the names of  _all_ the bugs in this realm.

But first they have to do this registration thing at the school, Regina said, so the teacher will know who he is on the first day of class. His papa should be here with them. “Can’t you poof him here?” Roland tilts his head back to look at her and gives her his best smile.

Regina likes his dimples. She’s told him so lots of times before. Sometimes when he smiles she lets him do things she wouldn’t on a normal day. Henry always acts huffy when it works, until Regina pats him on the shoulder and whispers things in his ear that make him laugh, and then they’re okay again.

This time, though, it’s not working. He can tell from the way she doesn’t smile back as big as she normally does. Instead, she sighs and tucks some of her hair behind her ear. “No, not now. It wouldn’t be safe to poof him while he’s driving. He’ll be here soon.”

“It’s ok, Roland,” Henry says, pushing himself up and glancing at his mom. “This is the boring part, anyway. Mom can do the paperwork first and then by the time that’s done Robin should be here to meet your teacher.”

Oh. Regina does a lot of paperwork at her job. One time, when he and his papa visited her in her office, she had a frown on her face bigger than he’d ever seen until he’d crawled into her lap and offered to help. Then she’d smiled and tapped his nose, suggesting they go get ice cream before the party instead, and, well, after that things get a little wobbly in his head, but the important thing is paperwork makes Regina sad. Or mad. Or something Henry called “frustrated with the petty bureaucracy born of a monarchy being compressed into small town democracy.”

Whatever  _that_ means.

Maybe Papa will be glad he missed the stuffy part. Maybe that was his whole plan. Papa’s smart like that, but next time he’s going to make sure he’s included in avoiding the boring parts.

“Okay,” he says, and rolls onto his knees and up to his feet.

Regina smiles wider this time, leaning down to brush grass and dirt from his pants. “Your shoes are untied again,” she says, and starts to kneel to help him.

“Wait! I can do it,” Roland says, squatting in the grass, crouching over his shoes and blocking Regina’s hands with his own. “Please?”

“Okay.” Regina raises her palms and stands next to Henry, one hand pressed to her stomach and the other wrapping around the older boy’s shoulders as she watches him prep the laces.

He takes a deep breath and stares at his white, black, and red sneakers. Everyone has been trying to teach him how to tie his shoes, and everyone has a different rhyme they use. They talk about bunnies and burrows, loops and bows, but none of it seems to stick in his head. He crosses the stiff white laces of his left shoe and pulls one lace under the other. Above him, Henry and Regina talk quietly, tiny pieces of their conversation piercing his concentration every now and then.

“…Register him without Robin? Even if he can’t get the official papers tonight?”

“I  _am_ the mayor,” Regina says. “We’ll figure something out.”

Make a long loop with one lace. That’s the easy part. The hard part is  _keeping_ the loop while the other lace goes around and under. Today he’s gonna get it. He’s going to kindergarten in two weeks and he’s going to wear shoes with laces like Henry that he ties himself. Without Papa or Regina or Henry’s help.

“Sorry Operation… didn’t work…”

Roland stills his hands, laces half-knotted as he listens with his whole body. Henry makes up the code names when secrets are around. Regina says something he can’t quite make out, and Roland resumes his battle with his shoes.

One day, when he’s big enough, he’s going to ask Henry if he can be a part of one of his special operations, too. Right now he’s too little, Papa said so one night when he overheard them talking about Operation Monsoon. No, that’s not right. Operation Mongoose? Papa told him it was something special between Henry and his moms (how lucky was he to have  _two_ of them), that the Locksley men could help by making sure no one bothered them while they were on their mission and giving lots of hugs. The hugs were supposed to be his part, but Papa hugged Regina even more than he did, and he ended up talking to Henry instead about bugs and horses and something the older boy called “superheroes” that turned out to be the make believe witches and magicians people told stories about in this land.

Roland pulls on his laces again, and as the knot tightens so does his chest. If he can’t even tie his own shoes, how can he be a part of Henry’s operations? What if they won’t let him into kindergarten because all he can tie is knots instead of bows and bunny ears?

“Roland? Honey? May I help you?” Regina asks, sinking into a crouch in front of him, hands resting on her knees. Any other day he’d nod his head, fall backward onto his bottom and watch her pick apart the knots with her fingers while she chants the rhyme she favors, her hair swinging across her face. She always smells like flowers and apples (sometimes like campfire), and deep down in his most secret of secret places he wonders if this is what all moms are supposed to smell like, wants to ask if all moms tie shoes and wash mud out of hair and take little boys who are only their pretend sons to register for school.

“Roland?”

“Please don’t tell my teacher I can’t tie shoes yet,” he whispers, watching a tiny black ant crawl across the toe of his sneaker.

A crooked finger under his chin lifts his face to hers. She’s not smiling, but she’s not frowning either. More like serious, with her eyebrows raised and her chin dipped until her eyes are level with his. “How old are you?” she asks, her voice soft, like a warm blanket wrapping around him.

“Five.”

“Do you know how old Henry was before he could tie shoes?”

Roland shakes his head. Probably four. Henry is smart.

Regina winks at the teen, then leans closer. “He was six and a half,” she confides, her nose scrunching as she smiles.

“No way,” he says, gaping up at Henry, who’s bouncing the toe of his right shoe in the ground, lips pressed together in a thin smile as he nods his affirmation, and then swivels his head back to face Regina. “Really?”

“Really.” She leans forward until their foreheads are touching, and her fingers leave his chin to start working apart his shoelaces. “You have plenty of time to learn, little knight.”

A smile blossoms unbidden on his face. He is her knight, Papa is her thief, Henry is her prince, and Regina is the queen. Or mayor, here, but mayors don’t wear fancy clothes with shiny jewels sewn into them. She doesn’t seem to mind, but one night he found Papa kissing her neck in the kitchen, asking if she had any of her gowns from the Enchanted Forest hidden away in her vault. He never did find out what the answer was because Henry snuck up behind him and clapped his hand over his mouth, carrying him up the stairs under his arm like a stolen watermelon. He’d put up a fuss once they were shut in the older boy’s room until Henry said if they were quiet his mom and his papa would probably let them stay up and play video games. He woke up the next day curled up under a spare quilt at the end of Henry’s bed, controller still clutched in his hand, a warm glow swimming in his chest.

Regina finishes tying both his shoes and then taps them with her fingers. “There. Now, are you ready to get registered for school?”

His chest isn’t tight anymore, has more of the glowing type stuff swimming between his lungs like the night he and Henry played video games, and he jumps up in the air with both hands raised as high as he can stretch. “Yes!”

The three of them walk into the school together, each of his hands in one of theirs. Half the town crams into the hallways, older children sweeping the walls for their assigned lockers, younger children clinging to parents as they’re led to their new classrooms. Regina creates a small wake around her (because she’s the queen, Roland thinks, and he puffs his chest out, pretending  _he_ is the one escorting  _her_ ), and he and Henry follow her in a single file line, their hands linking them together as they snake through the corridors until they reach the cafeteria.

Once they’re in the large room, Regina releases his hand to rummage through her purse. Roland steps closer to Henry as he looks around. Tall gray tables sprouting blue circular seats stand folded and pushed against the edges of the room. Colorful posters of happy fruits and vegetables paper the walls, some with dangling corners that wave as the air conditioner pumps cool air into the room.

“Over there is where you get your food,” Henry says, pointing to a darkened corner of the room where several kiosks sit in a line. “And when you get here on the first day all the tables will be down in long rows.”

“Will you sit with me?” Roland asks, looking up at Henry, keeping his grip tight on his hand.

The older boy shrugs. “We’ll probably eat at different times. And you’ll sit with your class for the first year.”

“Oh.”

“But if I see you in the lunch line or in the hallway I’ll make sure to say hi.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Henry says, and he crosses his heart, holding out his pinky. Roland crosses his own heart and links a pinky with his.

Regina glances back at them, dropping her purse back to the crook of her elbow, folded paper clutched in her other hand, and smiles at their locked fingers. “Shall we?” she asks.

Roland nods once and squares his shoulders, standing as tall as he can like his papa does, and lets go of Henry’s hand to stand next to his mom. Henry chuckles, and he’s pretty sure he’s laughing at him, but he doesn’t care because Regina is smiling that special smile she seems to save for just him and Henry, the one that hatches warm fuzzies in his chest. Together, they walk to the table with a large “K” printed on stiff blue paper taped to the edge.

“Hello!” the woman sitting behind the table says, smiling at them both. “Who do we have here?”

Regina squeezes his hand tight for a second before letting go and pushing him forward with a gentle hand on his back. "This is my so—”

“Regina!” a familiar voice says, and both he and Regina turn to see Papa jogging toward them, a thick, folded sheaf of papers clutched in his hand.

This is my  _what_? What was Regina going to say?

Papa interrupts at  _the worst times_.

He stops just short of them and claps Henry on the shoulder as he catches his breath. “Sorry I’m late. The clerk ‘lost’ our papers for a bit, but the phone call you made must have been quite inspirational.”

Regina hums deep in her throat as a wicked smirk forms on her face. “But you got them?”

Roland turns back to Henry, tugging on his jacket sleeve until he looks down. “What’s going on?” he asks. The air around him is electric, like a lightning storm about to strike, and his tummy is quivery, like the time he ate ice cream and then drank two glasses of root beer before Papa realized the waitress at Granny’s had brought him a refill.  

“Hang on a sec,” Henry whispers, ruffling his hair. “It’s a surprise.”

“For  _me_?”

“Yeah, kid.” Henry winks at him and holds his finger to his lips.

Roland nods, holds his hand over his mouth lest he speak and let the grown ups know he’s caught on to them. Behind him, the woman at the table shifts in her chair, the metal legs scraping against the floor. He turns around and places both hands on the edge of the table, and whispers, “I’m getting a surprise.”

She nods her head, and makes the zipper motion across her lips, pointing back at his papa and Regina. Right. He can be quiet. He can be quiet if he tries very hard. The woman behind the table gets a toothy grin from him before he mimics her shushing gesture and spins around on his heels.

“Appropriate documentation, as milady requested,” Papa says, handing Regina the packet.

She flips through the pages, scanning them, her eyes darting back and forth as her smirk changes to a full on grin.

This must be good paperwork, he supposes, but what is it? Why isn’t anyone saying anything?  "It’s been a second,“ Roland says, tugging on Henry’s sleeve again. “Why does everyone know what’s going on except me?”

"Mom,” Henry says, holding up his wrist to show her his watch. “We might still have time for Operation Knighthood if we hurry.”

Regina rotates her wrist to check her own watch, the papers flapping sideways in her hand. “Well, maybe,” she says, and turns to Papa. “What do you think?”

“Come on, son,” he says, holding his hand out as a smile emerges behind his whiskers. “We have a surprise for you outside." 

Roland curls his fingers around his papa’s palm, his skin warm and rough against his own, and it feels like home.

"We’ll be right back,” Regina says, touching her hand to the table as she talks to the woman sitting behind it. “We’re going to duck out to the playground for a few minutes.”

The woman nods, listening as Regina whispers something to her, and then she sets aside a sheaf of paperwork and motions for them to to go on.

The four of them navigate through the crowds again, Henry leading them out one of the back doors and across a small field to where the bright colored playground equipment sits, an island in a sea of dark brown mulch. Once they’re at the metal playset, Papa lifts him below his armpits and settles him at the top of one of the little yellow slides.

Henry runs up the slide next to him, ducking his head as his mom chides him for setting a bad example, and smiles at Roland as he sits beside him. “Tight fit,” he says, wiggling his hips and legs until he’s wedged between the raised edges, Roland giggling at the faces he makes while getting settled.

Regina huffs and braces her hand on a blue support pole. “If you get stuck,” she warns, trailing off.

“I know, I know,” Henry says. “Let’s get on with it. Roland’s about to burst over here.” He pats Roland on the back, and the little boy swells at being noticed. Finally.

Henry would be an awesome brother.

“Roland,” Papa says, his hand warm on his knee through his jeans. “You know that Regina and I love you very much.” His eyes flick over to Henry, then to Regina where they stay for a few seconds, and then back to him. “You and Henry both, right?”

“Uh huh,” Roland says, tapping the sides of his feet against the lip of the slide, folding and unfolding his hands in his lap. They tell him every night before bed. _Goodnight, little archer_ , or  _goodnight, little knight_ , Regina says, dropping kisses on his forehead, his nose, before moving away for Papa to tuck him into the bed when they sleep over at her house. Papa says their bedtime rhyme, and Regina watches from the doorway, her head resting on the doorframe until they’re finished, and then she blows him a kiss as she turns out the light.

Yes, Papa and Regina love him.

On the other side of the slide, Regina clears her throat. “I told you the story of how I adopted Henry, remember?” She’s got one of her hands on Henry’s leg, like Papa’s is on his, but when she starts talking Henry moves one of his hands to cover hers and squeezes her fingers tight. When Roland nods, she takes a deep breath, and says, “Your papa and I have been talking for a long time, and Henry and I have talked, too, and we decided we wanted to invite you and your papa to be part of our family.”

He sucks in a sharp gulp of air, his eyes widening until he’s sure they’re going to pop out of his face, and then he ducks his head, staring at his feet, his new, red, black, and white sneakers he’d asked his papa to buy him for school. Part of their family. She wants him and Papa to be part of their family. Her and Henry.

Inside his shoes, he wiggles his toes. Regina tied them good. They haven’t come loose yet.

He has a family already. Papa and the Merry Men. Papa waking him up in the morning, pouring gobs of goopy, gray oatmeal into his wooden bowl by the fire, sprinkling cinnamon into the thick mixture and handing him the spoon to stir it up as he blinks himself awake. Papa playing ogres and archers with him even after he’s patrolled the forest since before he woke up. Papa teaching him about arrows and bows, how to carry a weapon safely, when it is acceptable to kill and when it is acceptable to let live.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Henry laying a hand on Regina’s shoulder when Papa says something. His shoes start to ooze and go watery, and he blinks three times until they sharpen again. Papa’s hand moves away from his leg, grips the side of the slide, and Roland takes a shuddering breath as he folds his hands and flexes his fingers like a butterfly’s wings.

He likes Regina and Henry’s family. Their little family and their big family. Regina reads to him, sings to him on nights when he and Papa sleep over but maybe Papa has to go help someone in the forest during bedtime, and her voice sounds like starlight even though she never sings when anyone else is around except Henry.

Henry. He glances sideways to the teen, who’s talking quietly to Regina. Henry could be, he could actually be… The thought gets caught in his throat, sticky and thick even when he tries to swallow.

“Roland, are you alright, son?” Papa’s hand rubs his back, and he snaps his gaze away from Henry and his shoes to meet his papa’s worried face.

“Did you hear that?” he asks.

“Yes, I did,” Papa says, leaning close to whisper, but he doesn’t do a very good job because he’s pretty sure Regina and Henry can hear him. “What do you think we should say?”

His heart pounds like a baby rabbit’s, and maybe if he’d eaten more of his dinner earlier he would have thrown up by now because his tummy is even _more_ churny than when he ate the ice cream and root beer, but he grins so hard his face  _hurts_ and it doesn’t even matter. He swivels back to Henry and Regina, and she’s biting her lip like Papa does sometimes and Henry’s face looks as happy as his feels and before Papa can stop him, he’s launched himself toward Regina.

“Woah!” Henry says, grabbing him around his middle before he falls off the side of the slide. “Easy there, kid.”

Regina’s smiling and laughing, scolding him even as she picks him up and cuddles him close and this,  _this_ is what moms are like, what family is like, catching and falling and hugging and knotty-tied shoes. He breathes deep as he wraps his arms around her neck, and his tummy is still bouncing bouncing bouncing, his arms and legs buzzing like he’s been sitting for a long time. How has he not exploded and then come back together again yet?

Papa steps over the slide and hops down next to them and wraps them both in a hug, opening his arms for Henry to lean into it as well. For a few seconds they stand there and the world is perfect. He never thought he could have this, be a part of something like this anywhere but that secret place inside his head.

This is what Henry has, what he’s seen since they came to Storybrooke. This is what Regina told him about in the Enchanted Forest on rainy nights when the thunder shook the stones of the castle and drove him to tears. His family is good. His papa loves him, the Merry Men love him, and he loves the dirt and sleeping outside and fishing and learning about forest things. But this family is good, too, this family of warm hugs and soft spoken secrets and blanket forts and magic.

He needs to get down, wriggles his arms and legs until Regina bends to set him on the ground, and then he’s off, running under the tunnels snaking through the playground, kicking up mulch as he turns, and then Henry runs down the slide and starts to chase him. He taps him on the shoulder, yelling, “Tag, you’re it!” and then Roland is chasing after Henry as Papa and Regina lean against the slide, and as he runs past them he shrieks, “Ew!” as Papa wraps his arms around her from behind and she leans her head back to kiss him.

He runs as fast and as hard as he can, and every time his foot strikes the ground the buzzing in his limbs pounds into the mulch until only an aching tiredness fills his bones. Henry runs with his head half turned back, almost runs into the yellow fireman pole, loops his arm around it to swing around, and runs back toward him, growling like an ogre. Roland yelps and skids, running back to his papa and Regina, ducking between them and the playground equipment. Henry’s too big to follow him underneath.

He creeps below the platform housing the slides, watching Henry’s jean clad legs slow to a walk, pacing around the perimeter. When he sees his feet turn away, Roland shimmies out into the open and tackles him from behind with a yodeling war cry as they fall to the ground.

“Oof!” Henry grunts, but as soon as he catches his breath he’s got Roland trapped below him on the ground, knees on either side of him, and he’s tickling him and  _oh_ , how awfully wonderful does it feel to  _laugh_ right now.

“No, stop! I’m gonna wet my pants,” he pleads, kicking his feet, his heels gouging dark tracks in the wood chips.

Henry holds his hands in the air and tips over so he’s lying on the ground next to him, and they’re both breathing hard, knees pointed at the sky as the first stars wink into the twilight, hands clutching their bellies, still laughing intermittently, and then the older boy says, “Don’t think that just because you’re my brother I’ll go easy on you every time, Sir Roland.”

Oh.

He’s… Henry’s his brother now, and somewhere amidst the laughter his giggles turn into tears. He’s crying now, fat tears falling down his cheeks that he can’t stop no matter how hard he tries, and now, maybe, he might throw up.

Papa’s blurry face hovers over him, he’s being lifted into his arms, and he’s just so  _tired_ , but so happy he wants to scream and run around with Henry more and cuddle with Papa and Regina until he falls asleep. But first he needs to cry a little more. Papa starts walking back toward the school, Regina walking next to them with her arm around Henry’s shoulders. Roland reaches out, and she grabs his hand and presses a kiss to it before setting it back on Papa’s shoulder.

Most of the people are gone from the school when they go back inside. Regina’s face creases until they get to the cafeteria, and then she’s sighing, a happy sigh, not a sad one, and he lifts his head a little from Papa’s shoulder and sees the registration lady still sitting behind the table with the blue “K” talking to another lady, who turns out to be his teacher.

Roland gives her a quiet, “Hello,” and then buries his face in his papa’s neck. It’s still early, not quite his bedtime, but he’s sleepy now, can’t keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time. Regina sits at the table with both women and starts to fill out forms while Henry grabs a second set of paperwork and leads Papa to a separate table with a few chairs pushed underneath.

Papa grunts as he sits. “You’re getting too heavy to carry, m’boy,” he murmurs, running his hand over his curls. “Are you happy?”

“Mm,” he says, cuddling further into him, holding on tight as his papa’s rumbling laugh vibrates through his chest and into his own. He drifts into a heavy doze, waking every now and then as Papa leans over to help Henry fill out information in the packet of papers or calls out a soft question to Regina.

He remembers being tucked into the bed he stays in when they spend the night at Regina and Henry’s, remembers he had a thousand more questions he wanted to ask, questions about where they’re going to live, will this be his room now, does this mean he has to call Regina mom, does she want him to call her mom, what if Henry doesn’t want him to call her mom, what if he does, but can’t get anything past his lips that’s more than a hum when Regina kisses his forehead and Papa tugs the quilt over his shoulder.

Later, when the moon still hangs heavy in the sky, he wakes. Throws the covers from his bed and shuffles down the hallway, clinging to the wall until he reaches Regina’s bedroom. The door is always cracked open, but the room is dark, and he presses inward slow in case the metal parts squeak. He can hear soft voices talking from where the bed sits, and he pushes open the door all the way.

“Roland? Are you okay?” Regina asks, leaning over the edge of the bed, her voice deep and rumbly like in the mornings. Maybe she was woken up by the night sky, too.

He clambers up to the bed, settles between Regina and his papa under the covers. Regina kisses his forehead, cuddles him close, and then Papa is wrapping his arms around both of them. He’s a tiny caterpillar cocooning until the sun rises. Regina brushes his hair back with her hand over and over again, humming a song that sounds almost familiar. His papa doesn’t like to sing, but he can feel his arm flexing as he rubs Regina’s arm in time to the tune.

Roland stretches a little, and then sighs. The warm glowy isn’t swimming in his chest anymore. It wells up, past his heart and lungs, streaming down his arms and legs, filling him up to the top of his head, and down to his toes.


	2. Of Sucker Punches, Tooth Fairies, and Fuzzy Caterpillar Feelings, or, Roland Visits the Principal's Office

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for regal-believerxrizzlexaddict on tumblr who requested a story where roland was being bullied at school and henry protected him

Roland hasn't been going to school for long, but he's pretty sure it's a bad thing to sit in the principal's office with a bag of ice pressed to his mouth. Of course, the jeering _oohs_ from his classmates clued him in, too, as his teacher hauled him, Henry, Charlie, and Charlie's big brother off the playground. Roland shifts his grip on the soggy paper towel wrapped around his bag of ice and pulls it away, frowning at the red specks of blood smeared like watercolor paints over the pink flowery pattern.

"Hey," Henry says, nudging him with his elbow. "Keep that pressed on your gums. You're still bleeding a little."

"So are you," Roland lisps, tongue probing the gap where his two front teeth should be, but he raises the ice back to his mouth.

The older boy shrugs and readjusts the mass of bloody tissues he's holding to his nose. "It'll stop soon."

"We're in trouble, aren't we?" Roland whispers, swinging his legs, the toes of his sneakered feet skipping across the linoleum.

"You're not, but I am. Mom's gonna kick my butt."

"Which one?"

"Both, probably."

"Is Regina gonna kick my butt?"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Henry says, his voice sharp like the tip of a pencil as he crumples his bloody tissues and slings them into the metal trash can by the door. He presses his fingers to his nose a few times, pulling them away to check for blood, and sniffs. "It's my fault you're here in the first place anyway."

"You were protecting me," Roland insists, switching his hands on the ice pack.

Henry shakes his head. "I should have been more careful. Still got your teeth?"

Yes, he does. Roland grabs the other plastic baggie from the empty chair next to him and dangles it proudly, his two front teeth clicking together inside the bag as he shakes the container. "Does the tooth fairy still come if your teeth get knocked out in a fight instead of falling out by themselves?"

"I don't know, kid. She might make an exception since it was an accident."

"I hope so."

"I could put in a good word, maybe, since it was me that knocked them out."

"Really?"

"Sure," Henry says, shrugging.

Henry hasn't been his big brother for long, you know, just since the beginning of the school year. It's still a new concept for him, enough to spark a residual thrill of excitement, like a furry caterpillar wriggling around inside his chest whenever Henry does something nice or protects him. "How much longer do we have to wait out here?"

Before Henry can respond, two familiar voices echo in the hallway, Princess Snow, who he's supposed to call Ms. Blanchard at school (but he's not very good at that part yet), and... "Papa!"

Roland scoots out of his chair and runs to the door as his papa enters the main office, flinging himself into his arms. Papa lifts him up and holds him close, and Roland buries his nose in the crook of his neck.

"Let me see you, little man." Papa sets him on the floor and pushes the wet, bloody napkin away from his mouth, thumb pressing his lower lip down to see the damage.

"No, up here," Roland says, shoving his hand out of the way to peel his upper lip back and display his battle wound. "See?"

A feeble whistle scuttles through the gap in his teeth, hitching a ride with his words. Oh! As Papa lifts his lip further to examine his gums, Roland hisses and twitches his tongue in his mouth, trying to reproduce the sound, but all he manages is a dribble of spit that slides down his chin like melted ice cream.

"It's my fault," Henry says. "I should have made sure he was out of the way."

"Is not his fault." There! He whistled again! Roland wipes his chin with the sleeve of his shirt and bobs his head away from Papa's probing fingers. "He was helping me. It was an accident."

"Henry," Princess—ugh—Ms. Blanchard says, leaning through the doorway. "Regina and Emma are both on their way over."

"Great."

Papa smiles at Henry as he ruffles Roland's hair. "At the risk of you both having to repeat yourself fifteen times, I'll save the worried parent routine and trust that you two had very good reasons for doing as you did."

Henry nods and slouches down in the chair, legs sprawled wide, murmuring a quiet, _Thanks_.

They chat for a few minutes, Papa quizzing him on his spelling words (tree: t-r-e-e) as they wait for Regina and Emma to arrive, and once the paper towel at his mouth comes away clean, they walk across the hallway to the water fountain so he can swish and spit into the silver basin like he's been brushing his teeth instead of yelling and fighting. A different kind of hurt settles in his mouth, a dull ache like the bottoms of his feet after running on the playground instead of the tick-tock-tick-tock throb of his heartbeat where his front teeth used to be.

"Robin!"

Roland perks up as Regina's voice floats down the hallway atop the click-clack of her pointy shoes, but as he whips his head around, he frowns.

_She's_ with Regina. Cecilia, his baby sister. Regina has a blanket tossed over her car seat carrier, clutching it in one hand as she shakes water off a collapsible umbrella with the other.

Great. Now it's raining. He won't get to play outside after school for sure now. Although, if he's about to be in trouble, that maybe wouldn't have happened anyway.

Henry's other mom, Emma, follows just behind Regina, and her boots scuff high pitched screeches against the linoleum. Her red jacket is shiny with water and her jeans have dark speckles.

"Where are they?" Emma asks, passing Regina, not even stopping as she gets a full spray from the umbrella. She spies Roland, though, and kneels down on one knee, running her hand through his curls, cupping his face. Must be a mom thing. "Are they ok?"

"They're both fine. No permanent damage," Papa says, holding his hand up in the air and gesturing to the open door of the office.

Emma dashes through the doorway while he and Papa wait for Regina to catch up in the hallway. Roland twists the bottom hem of his jacket as she approaches, deep lines scored around her downturned mouth.

Yep. She's gonna kick his butt.

"What's wrong?" Papa wraps his fingers around the baby carrier's handle and lifts it from her grasp.

Regina ignores his papa for a moment, leaning down to cup Roland's chin and tilt his face toward her. "Open, please," she says, her voice soft, but firm.

Roland complies, allowing her to prod and poke around in his mouth a bit before she sighs and stands.

"The sitter canceled again." Her voice is tight like a rubber band waiting to snap, stretching into the air between her and Papa above his head.

Cecilia ruins _everything_.

It's not that he doesn't _like_ her. It's just... she can't _do_ anything yet except cry and sleep and poop. Sometimes Regina spreads a soft white blanket with a pink ribbon on the edge and sits on the floor and lets the baby wriggle like a tiny pink beetle turned on its back for a while, but he only sticks around for the funny faces Regina and Papa make when they play.

Henry says it will be better once she's older. Roland wants to believe him, tries to believe the way Henry believes in things, from the top of his curly head to the tip of his toes, but sometimes an angry, yellow sun burns in his belly when Papa or Regina tell him to wait just a minute, be patient for just another minute while they tend to the baby.

Kind of like what happened on the playground.

Papa runs his hand through his hair, puffs his cheeks out like a chipmunk and sighs, "Right, then. I'll see if someone else can pick up the rest of my shift after we're done here."

"Let's see how this goes, first," Regina says, craning her neck to look through the glass windows into the office. "We may have a bigger issue on our hands."

Roland stands on his tippy toes, pulling down on Papa's hand to balance himself. Emma sits next to Henry, mimicking his pose, but her face is serious, like she's lost somewhere between being mad and sad. She glances up and smirks a little at Regina through the window, and then the serious face comes back as she starts to talk quietly with Henry.

"Regina?" Roland asks, flexing his fingers around Papa's hand. "Are you gonna kick me and Henry's butts?"

She glances down, one eyebrow raised. "Henry's and my," she corrects, then, "And that depends on what happened."

Roland swallows hard to see the quiet storminess brewing on her face. She doesn't yell when she's upset, not at him or Henry (just other adults sometimes, on special occasions, like she promised), but she talks soft and low so he has to be quiet to hear her, and really that's almost worse than the yelling.

The door to the principal's office opens, and a family of four straggles out, a momma, papa, and two boys his and Henry's ages. Roland grips Papa's hand tighter as the younger one, Charlie, catches his eye through the window. His face is still red and twisted, like an overripe tomato with a blonde buzz cut, and Roland presses his lips together to not laugh at the image of Henry squashing him into the ground. A tiny bubble of mirth escapes him, though, and Papa clears his throat and shakes his head, frowning as he readjusts his grip on the baby carrier.

Right. He's in trouble. Roland sighs and follows Regina and Papa into the main office.

Emma is already standing, talking to Charlie's parents, and they're not quite shouting at each other, but no one seems very happy, either. Which makes sense, he supposes, because he's got a baggie with his front teeth stuffed in the front pocket of his khakis and Charlie has a scrape on his elbow and both Henry and the older boy sport the beginnings of dark circles around their eyes, like a pair of disagreeable teenage raccoons eyeing each other over their mothers' shoulders.

"—your son hadn't attacked my Charlie then Bernard wouldn't have—"

" _Henry,_ " Emma says, arm thrust out to the side as if she's holding her son back or protecting him from the words flying back and forth, "Would never attack someone without provocation."

"And certainly not without due cause," Regina says, stepping coolly alongside Emma, in full majesty mode. "I'll thank you not to spew your baseless accusations in public."

"My children aren't lying sons of wh—"

It happens so fast Roland nearly misses it.

Regina's arm twitches up, but before any magic spills out, Emma clamps her hand down on her wrist, snaps out a brisk, _Regina_ , and Charlie's parents both shove their sons behind them, like they were afraid Regina would hurt them. Which is just silly, in Roland's opinion, but nobody asks him. He releases Papa's hand and stands next to Henry instead. His brother's hands are clenched, knuckles bleeding white into his skin around the rough scrapes from the fight. Roland wraps his hand around Henry's fist and peels the older boy's fingers out of his palm until he's holding his hand instead.

"That is quite enough from the lot of you," Principal Sweets says, stepping out of her office and sliding between the two sets of parents. "I'll thank you to keep magic outside the school grounds, Madam Mayor, Sheriff."

Regina lowers her hand, inclines her head. "Of course."

"Thank you. Now, if you'll follow me, please." The principal turns and walks into her office without waiting for anyone to respond, like Regina does sometimes when she's mad.

Two chairs sit before the principal's desk. Henry tries to scoot out of the way so one of the adults can sit, but Regina places a firm hand on his shoulder until he sinks into the seat. Roland glances up at his papa, who raises his brows and nods toward the empty chair, and he climbs into it, tugging the ziploc from his pocket and clutching it tight in his left fist.

Principal Sweets sits behind her desk, and folds her hands over a large, open book. "Thank you all for coming in today," she says, nodding at their parents. Her gray eyes flick down to Roland and his brother. "I've spoken to all the children separately, and of course you saw the Smithesons leave, but I want Henry and Roland to tell you what happened themselves. Roland, would you like to start?"

He sucks in a big breath and traps it inside his chest. If he holds his breath long enough, his brain will go fuzzy, and then maybe everything would go fuzzy and his mouth wouldn't hurt anymore. Papa rests a hand on his shoulder. "Go on, son. It's alright."

Roland sighs out all the air inside him. "Charlie doesn't like me. He calls me names and steals my applesauce in the cafeteria even though his mom packs him two of them. I tried to ignore him. I tried to be nice to him even though he's not nice to me. But today on the playground he pushed me off the swing."

"I saw it happen," Henry says as Roland pauses to take a breath. "I was walking to my locker and saw him yank on the swing chain."

"Mr. Mills, we'll get your side of the story in just a moment," the principal says, holding a hand up, but even though she's not smiling, her eyes look kind. "Go on, Roland. Tell us what happened next."

"Well, I thudded on the ground really hard, so I couldn't breathe for a little bit, but then I saw Charlie's shoes next to my face, and he started saying all of these really mean things about my family. And I know people say them all the time, but nobody ever said it to my face before, and it made me really mad."

"What did he say to you?" Regina asks.

"Bad things, about everybody," Roland mumbles, looking down at his shoes.

And they were bad things that Charlie said, even if he didn't understand what all of the words he used meant. Cici's just a baby and can't even sit up by herself without somebody holding her, so she's just kinda boring, not bad. Henry's never been anything but nice and cool and is _not_ an attention whore, whatever that is, and Papa's the bravest, most awesome person ever, his favorite person in the whole world. Plus, last time he checked, evil queens don't read bedtime stories or put Spiderman bandaids on skinned knees or draw smiley faces on the napkins in his lunch box.

And most of all, Roland is _not_ a crybaby.

Papa's hand tightens on his shoulder, and he can hear the shushing of everyone's clothing as they shift behind him. Roland looks up at the principal, who does smile at him then, something small and understanding before she nods her head for him to continue.

"I grabbed Charlie's ankle, but he kicked me off before I could do anything. That's when Henry ran over." Roland grabs his elbows and leans forward until he's hunched over his knees, away from Papa's touch.

"Thank you, Roland," the principal says, her voice soft. "Henry, would you like to take over?"

Henry tells everyone about how he ran over just as Charlie got on the swing and was about to plow into Roland, how Henry pulled him away and stepped in front of the swing like you're not supposed to and got kicked in the gut for it, but it made the other boy lose his balance and fall off, too.

"That's when Bernard came over," Henry says. "I guess he saw Charlie fall and thought it was my fault. I tried to explain what happened, but as soon as he got close enough he sucker punched me."

Cici starts to fuss then, and Papa sets down her carrier and lifts her into his arms, swaying and patting her bottom. "Roland, how did your teeth get knocked out?"

Henry grimaces. "That's my fault. We were scuffling on the ground, and Roland was yelling for me to stop. I turned and accidentally kicked him in the mouth and knocked the other little guy over again. That's when the teachers finally noticed and brought us in here."

Emma sighs out Henry's name, rubbing her hand across her forehead, and Henry mutters an embarrassed, _Sorry_ , as he sinks down in his seat.

"Don't apologize to me. I'm not the one you kicked in the face."

"He said sorry," Roland assures her. "Lots of times."

Principal Sweets clears her throat and removes her glasses, allowing them to dangle from her fingers for a moment before placing them on her desk. "Sheriff Swan, Mayor Mills, Mr. Locksley. While I don't believe there was any malice on your children's part, I'm afraid school policy dictates that every student involved in a physical altercation must serve at least one day of in-school suspension."

Roland's stomach goes cold as beads of sweat pop up at the nape of his neck. "What does that mean?"

"Well, we don't really have anything set up for kindergarteners. Instead, you'll have to walk the track with the teachers during recess and sit at a special table during lunch."

"What about Henry?" Roland grips his brother's arm tight. Henry doesn't even _have_ a recess in his grade, which already sounds like punishment.

"He'll go to a separate classroom to complete his work for the day, and sit at the same table as you during his own lunch period."

Henry sits up straighter and half turns in his chair until he's facing Roland. "I'll be fine, Ro. It's like Mom says." He turns to Regina, smiling a crooked smile. "Actions have consequences, regardless of intent."

Regina's whole face smiles, like sunshine beaming from the roots of her hair to the tip of her nose and out.

Principal Sweets folds her hands on top of her desk. Her fingernails are painted a shimmery purple that almost looks blue as she taps her thumbs together. "Our anti-bullying week is next month. In addition to the day of in-school suspension, I'd like to have the four boys work together on a presentation for the assembly the first day."

"You want them to work together? After all of this?" Emma waves her hand in the air over Henry's head.

Roland gapes up at his papa, whose mouth is pressed in a thin line as he rocks Cici. When no further protestation erupts from him or Regina, Roland flops back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Supervised by a teacher, of course, after school for the next two weeks," Principal Sweets says, nodding. "I believe it will be constructive for the boys to get to know one another."

What? No. Roland will not be forced into anything with stupid Charlie or his mean big brother. He juts his lower lip out and would have started a good and proper stropping if not for Regina's hand on his shoulder. He swallows, hard, and glances up at her through his curls.

Her what-did-I-tell-you-about-bringing-chipmunks-into-the-house-young-man face is on, and he sucks his lip back in lickity-split.

"They'll be there. Both of them," Regina says.

The grownups take care of some nitpicky things, and then it's finally time to go, the last bell having rung while they were in the office. Roland scoots off the seat, sucking his upper lip through the wide gap in his teeth with a slurping squelch that almost makes up for the crummy end to his day.

As they're leaving, Principal Sweets calls out him.

"You dropped your teeth," she says, holding the bag between her thumb and forefinger.

Roland scurries back into the office and retrieves it, stuffing the bag in his pocket so he won't lose it again. "Thank you."

"I'd put those beneath your pillow tonight if I were you." She winks at him as she leans down to whisper. "The tooth fairy is my sister-in-law, and I might be able to put in a good word for you."

Roland sucks in a breath. Both Henry _and_ Principal Sweets talking to the tooth fairy on his behalf? He's sure to have her visit now! "Thank you!" He runs back to Regina and Papa, grabbing both of their hands and telling them the news.

No, it's not a good thing to go to the principal's office, but sometimes, Roland thinks, good things can come from bad.


	3. Of Sniffles, Hangman, and Late Night Cuddles, or, Roland Has the Flu

Roland has the floo.

No, that's not quite right.

He has the _flu_.

Henry taught him how to spell it right earlier, when they were playing hangman during the grown ups' New Year's Eve party. His older brother snuck upstairs, just to visit him, he said, sitting down with a small whiteboard and three colored markers, claiming the party was kinda boring without his partner in crime to keep him company.

"Really?" Roland asked, blowing his nose and wincing as his red, chapped skin rubbed against the tissue, soft as it was. He sounded like a baby elephant, and if his head wasn't stuffed to bursting with snot, he might have been entertained by the various noises he's been able to make over the last two days.

"Yeah," Henry said, drawing a crude gallows that looked more like a shepherd's crook with a row of dashes below. "They're all playing this weird game my mom brought over, and it was getting a little rowdy."

"Papa's good at games, but Uncle Will is better."

"Yeah, Robin and Mom were on a team together and doing pretty well when I left."

"I hope they win."

"Fingers crossed." Henry held his hand up, middle finger wrapped around his index, and Roland did the same. "Now, this game is called Hangman. You have to guess the word at the bottom letter by letter. Every wrong letter you guess, I draw a body part."

Roland frowned, dropping his tissue into the overflowing trash can wedged between his bed and dresser. "I'm not very good at spelling."

"This will help," Henry promised, holding up the board. "See, I started small. You only have to guess three letters."

"Okay." Roland tugged his comforter up to his neck and leaned back against the extra fluffy pillow his papa gave him to help prop his head up while he slept.

They played until his eyes got too watery and itchy to keep them open, and Henry, because he is the _best_ big brother _ever_ , turned out the light and emptied his trash can for him before going back downstairs for the end of the party. He left the whiteboard and markers for him, warning him not to use them on paper, but Roland was asleep before Henry even left.

Now, though, he's awake. His tummy rumbles and bubbles, even though he hasn't eaten much today, and a yucky taste coats his mouth.

Oh, no.

At least this time he managed to lean over and throw up into the trash can instead of in his sheets like last night. He grips the corner of the mattress as he half hangs off the bed, catching his breath, trying to spit out as much of the bitterness as he can.

The flu is _terrible_.

His eyes water and his nose burns, but he's too stopped up for his nose to do anything but send out a slow ooze of snot, which only makes the tears come faster, harder, and he's so tired of being cooped up in his room by himself. On the wall, glow-in-the-dark clock hands shaped like crayons point to the one and… six? Seven? That means it's one… thirty. Ish.

"Regina? Papa?" His voice croaks and cracks like a brittle old frog. No way they'll be able to hear him from down the hallway, even with the door propped open.

He's supposed to be staying away from everyone, but Cici especially 'cause she's not as strong as he is, Regina says, but maybe whoever isn't taking care of her tonight can cuddle with him for a bit.

Roland slithers out of bed and totters over to the door, legs jelly-like after spending the last two days in bed. The hallway is dark, but a yellow sliver of light stretches from the laundry room to his room like a tightrope across the pale carpet as the dryer's thump-thump thump-thump hums softly. At the end of the hallway, his papa's low rumble spills from the nursery, soft blue and green lights from Cici's nightlight illuminating the seam below the door. Maybe Regina's awake, too.

He creeps into the hallway, tiptoeing past Henry's room. Regina and Papa's bedroom door is open, but the bed isn't mussed up yet. Roland grips the bannister and trudges down the stairs. Halfway down the icky throw up feeling comes back, though, and he sits down hard, lowers his head between his knees.

That's how she finds him.

Her stockinged feet are whisper-quiet on the hardwood floors, her soft _Roland!_ more of a startled gasp than a worried question. At first. Because he doesn't answer her when she starts walking up the stairs (what if the throw up comes _out_?) and then she's pounding up the stairs and almost slips on the last one as she kneels down before him. Her fingers skim his arms, cool and soothing against his feverish skin, and then she's resting her palm against the back of his neck and it feels so good he can't help but cry a little.

"It's okay, baby," she says. "You just let me know if you're going to throw up."

Roland nods, once, and they sit there for a few more minutes that are probably more like seconds, but being sick makes time do weird things, like make you wide awake at three in the morning or fall asleep with a half-eaten banana cuddled to your chest until Papa comes in to check on you and wakes you up after thirty minutes that felt like a day.

Eventually, the ickiness fades, and he sits up straight with his runny nose and his itchy eyes, and whispers, "Hi."

"Hi," Regina whispers back, her face scrunchy and smiley as she leans forward to press a kiss right on his forehead.

"I threw up. In my trash can."

"Okay. We'll have your papa clean it out when he's done with Cecilia." She cocks her head to the side, pouting a little as she strokes his cheek with her thumb. "What do you say we get you some more medicine, and then you and I have a cuddle on the sofa?"

"Yeah," he says, and then coughs and coughs into his elbow. Regina slides her hands below his armpits and lifts him, grunting as she swings him to her hip, and he wraps his arms around her neck and burrows into her side. She's still wearing her pretty red dress from the party, and he tries very hard to not wipe his nose on her shoulder like he does with Papa.

They end up in the kitchen, and _Just this once_ she lets him sit on the counter as she pulls down the Children's NyQuil and pours the sticky blue liquid into the little plastic cup. The first time Regina gave it to him, he plugged his nose when he tried to swallow it, but now he can't hardly breathe except through his mouth, so what does it matter, anyway? He swallows, shudders, and then Regina is scooping him up again and walking them into the study, where all the squashy furniture lives.

They curl up on the couch together, a light blanket thrown about them and trash can pressed flush to the edge of the cushions should he need it again. Regina sweeps his sweaty hair back from his forehead, starts telling him a story a time when Princess Snow was sick when she was a little girl. Older than him, but younger than Henry. Roland sniffles as he listens, bleary-eyed and miserable, trying to swallow the monstrous cough rumbling in his chest like a dragon. He shouldn't try to stop it, but his throat is as raw as the sides of his nose so he tries anyway until it's too much for his little body to contain.

A burst of coughing explodes from his lungs, and Regina sits up with him when the fit lasts longer than a few seconds, rubbing his back as he tries to catch his breath. Slimy, salty gunk hurtles into his mouth, and he gags at the sensation, leaning over to spit into the trash can.

"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry," she says as he rights himself, wiping tears of exertion from his cheeks with the backs of his hands.

Roland croaks, "S'okay."

As he leans forward to collapse against her chest again, his eyes alight on something small and green dangling above them. He splays a hand against Regina's shoulder as he squints at the ceiling.

"What is it?" Regina tips her head back with him.

He darts forward and presses a chapped-lipped kiss to the bottom of her chin. "Henry said you have to kiss under the the 'toe or it's bad luck."

She squeaks like surprised baby mouse at the unexpected gesture, smiling as she lowers her face to his again. "That was very sneaky of you. Did you and your papa put the mistletoe there for Christmas?"

"Uh huh," Roland says, a wobbly smile perched on his lips until he's struck by a distressing thought. "It still works on New Year's, right?"

"Of course it does." Regina dabs a quick kiss to his forehead. "Think you can sleep again or shall we cuddle a little longer?"

"Longer," he says without hesitation, lurching toward her chest again, knocking her back. "Just a little bit, please?"

"Okay."

She rubs his back and brushes his curls back from his face again, not talking this time, just breathing with him, in and out, her chest rising and falling and lifting his body with it, and he snuggles in until his eyes drift shut at long last.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Regina calls Roland her son


End file.
